


Never Bury My Love

by Drapetomania



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Death, Dimension Travel, M/M, Rebirth, Scars, Self-Sacrifice, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, War, cerberus mention, descent into the underworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drapetomania/pseuds/Drapetomania
Summary: Anyone who is willing to risk their life and spill blood is being recruited by the so-called ‘Hunters’; trained, weaponized and sent after the ‘big, bad monsters’. But most humans are not actively taking part in this war at all. They sit safely at their kitchen tables, eating home cooked meals and playing family games. That is where Stiles should be.Now they can't be sure he'll live to see tomorrow....but when the war takes Derek, Stiles refuses to take that lying down and rises to his potential.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Never Bury My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cobrilee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobrilee/gifts).



> Written in support for Fandom Cares BLM project for my darling [Bri](cobrilee.tumblr.com), who was so very patient with me! It was a bunch of fun writing this, even though it was slow ^^
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it Bri!
> 
> Thanks to [notvirginawoolf](notvirginawoolf.tumblr.com) and [princecharmingwinks](princecharmingwinks.tumblr.com) for the amazing bet and support!

"Do you really think we can survive?"   
  
Another explosion rattles the walls, sending dust raining down on them, but the brunet with the buzzcut, who is crouched against the wall in a defeated squat, doesn't even flinch. There is the flutter of an eyelid but there is also this emptiness to his expression, as if he's too spent to feel anything anymore. Derek wonders when this happened, when the fiery resistance died in Stiles’ eyes. He can't help the wave of guilt that flashes through his gut. If they had never met, Stiles wouldn't be stuck on the wrong side of enemy lines - no, he'd be safe at home, even. Without ever having to brace himself for the chest tearing experience of grenades and rockets. He wouldn't know what  ricocheting  bullets sound like, while stuck in a come down rural warehouse, trying to defend against the invading enemy line.

He could have lived happily till the end of his days. 

Anyone who is willing to risk their life and spill blood is being recruited by the so-called ‘Hunters’; trained, weaponized and sent after the ‘big, bad monsters’. But most humans are not actively taking part in this war at all. They sit safely at their kitchen tables, eating home cooked meals and playing family games. That is where Stiles should be. 

Now they can't be sure he'll live to see tomorrow.

Derek tries to crush the doubt between his molars, and there is a twinge in his jaw. He takes that as his cue to jerk into action. Crossing the distance and falling to his knees, he takes the gun from Stiles' hands.

"Of course we can survive," he lets out. It sounds much rougher to his ears than he had hoped and Derek focuses on reloading the weapon in his hands instead. Facing the sight of Stiles' pain is too much right now. He'd give his life to bring Stiles peace, he'd take on the world and all 7 rings of hell if only he knew how.

Insert new magazine, close the latch; scrape, click, clack. Derek holds the gun back out.

"But we have to keep fighting." 

Derek tries to meet Stiles' gaze to express his conviction. There is a dry tickle in the back of his throat, like devastating emotions are trying to dig their way out and he swallows them down quickly. Something about Stiles always makes it near impossible for Derek to keep his walls up.

The desperate need for hope in those caramel eyes has Derek leaning in. He grasps the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him close; close enough to share his warmth, to have Stiles feel the words. “We got this,” he whispers and gives him a reassuring squeeze. “Okay?” 

Stiles breathes, jaw working as swallows and licks over his lips. He nods slowly, eyes closing to the soft caress of Derek’s thumb, and meets Derek’s eyes again with a fresh spark of conviction.

“Okay,” Stiles says and Derek stops himself from listening for the lie. Rather, he imagines their heartbeats meeting somewhere in the air between them and synchronizing. Lanky, pale fingers wrap and tighten above Derek’s hand on the gun between them.

_ "I’m with you. Till the end of the world, _ ” Stiles had once said. 

Derek can’t even fathom exactly how long ago it has been. Time distorts when you are fighting for your life day in and day out, and every night. It stretches and seeps like slime. It’s probably only been 4 months, only a few weeks, and yet it feels like he has known nothing else in life, and never will. 

But he still has Stiles with him.

“Derek, I think they’re approaching!” A panicked, yet hardened voice finds them and they turn to see Isaac hurrying over in a crouch. A few shaggy, curled hairs straggle from underneath his hat, and like the rest of them he’s powdered with grime and dust from head to toe. His once pale face is darkened with dirt. When Derek met him, Isaac was a young, impressionable teen, who had a hint of resilience about him. Now… he holds himself like a hardened warrior. 

Dark blue eyes search both Stiles and Derek’s faces, waiting for their lead. Where Derek falters, Stiles launches himself forward.

“Plan B,” he says, pulling away from Derek and scrambling to his feet. “Erica!”

Derek watches him rush over to the blonde werewolf, the brown jacket fluttering around him due to its size. He had borrowed it from Derek, of course, when he had rocked up completely unprepared in a red hoodie and his school backpack, proclaiming he had to do the Right Thing. None of them could have anticipated what kind of life they would be subjected to. There had been theories, but learning about past wars and living in one were two completely different things.

"He's almost kind of impressive… for a human," Jackson appears next to Isaac, all high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. His pack had more blue eyes than Derek could never quite handle staring too long into. Might as well look at a photo of Peter, which Derek probably couldn’t stomach even if he had a picture remaining. Mirrors were difficult enough. He couldn't look into his own shifted eyes.

So he looks away from the were-kanima-wolf, whatever Jackson is, quickly. 

"Back off," Derek tells him, voice clipped. He hates having to repeat himself and is done wondering when some of their little ragtag supernatural group would accept a human in their midst. 

Derek has told them multiple times that Stiles is nothing like the Hunters. He is special. And it is not like they haven't lived peacefully with some in-the-know humans before the reveal. Some of them, including Isaac right next to them, used to be human. There are no clear, straight lines in war. Being human doesn't equal being monster or enemy, even if that is hard to remember sometimes.

"How many times are you going to trust one of them just because you have a liking for them?" Jackson mutters, quiet but no less obnoxious. 

"For fuck’s sake." Derek turns toward him fully. "He’s done a lot more to warrant my trust than you have. You don’t even try to be likable so what exactly do you have to offer?"

Jackson stiffens, face hard and lined.  _ At least I’m not human _ , it says. "I’m the best fighter here and you know it."

"Violence and hatred is what the Hunters excel at, too. Might want to double check which side you’re on." Derek leaves him standing with that, fleeing Isaac's skittering gaze, who hesitantly follows.

Derek resists the urge to run his palm over his face in the effort to shut the world out for a moment. It would only get more debris into his eyes, which he needs as clear as possible so he doesn’t trip and impale himself on a broken, protruding pipe or something. He'd survive, but it would slow them down considerably.

Plus, if his eyes start watering, chances are the choked down sobs that linger from his nightmares might escape. And once you start a waterfall, it is not likely to stop. There is no room for breaks of the psyche on the battlefield, nor any emotional confessions that may or may not follow.

Derek buries it all down in a mass grave, which are not uncommon in the lands around them. He keeps his mouth shut. Derek will choke down every warring emotion as long as he gets to follow his heart. As long as he has Stiles guiding him through the dark, like the last remaining star in the night sky.

∞ ∞ ∞

Stiles’ face, warm and glowing, alone remains clear as a darkness swoops in and settles around Derek like a heavy fog. It hugs him closely from all sides, soaking through his every cell.

It’s warm… or cold enough to numb him from the inside out. He isn’t sure. All Derek knows is he can’t move even though pain has disappeared.

Stiles’ hands are around him though, Derek knows this as well as he knows the glow of the moon. So why would he even want to move? This is the best place to be. With Stiles.

Stiles’ voice isn’t as clear though. Derek can hear him. He knows it’s Stiles like he knows that he is Derek Hale. He wishes he could at least read those familiar lips but they’re moving in a blur. One moment in slow-motion, the next they’re skipping speeds. What is he saying? Derek tries to focus but he can’t move, can’t-

What does Stiles wa-

“ _ I know what you want, Derek, but what do you need?” Stiles had hissed at him. He stood in front of Derek with the wind whipping at his hood. They didn’t even have cover out there. The forest guarded them, sure, but Hunters could find them here anyway. They could find them anywhere. They-  _

_ I need you. _

That is what he should have said. Back then.

Three simple words; eight letters. It isn’t supposed to be this hard. But now that Derek finally, finally possesses enough courage to let such words past his lips, his body fails him. It isn’t his anymore, he realizes belatedly, as he sinks.

He should have said those words when he had the chance, should have claimed Stiles’ lips with abandon, like he deserved, instead of offering a handful of secret, stolen kisses at night that were unacknowledged in sight of the sun.

There is no time left to do it now. Nothing left to sense except his heartbeat... slowing. So slow...

… and only darkness.

∞ ∞ ∞

They drag Stiles out of the room kicking and screaming.    
  
Isaac and Jackson hang back until the others make it to the end of the hallway before racing after them - but not without hesitating and throwing a last glance back. Tears are running down Isaac's red face when they catch up but he keeps pace to Stiles' left. Erica has a death grip on Stiles' right and is exuding controlled rage, face pinched in furious misery. Boyd's the one looking a little lost and wide-eyed but he is following Erica without second thought. 

If anything they should understand. They should know-

Stiles is  _ not  _ leaving Derek behind. 

He can't. It doesn't matter how many explosions rattle through the building. His whole world is already shaking, shattering and crumbling bone deep.

"There's no time!" Cora yells at him. She is supposed to be a long lost relative of Derek's or something but frankly, Stiles doesn't care. He doesn't care about semantics or bullets or the building coming down on them.

He knows he cannot physically resist the werewolves pulling him along. His measly human strength can't counter theirs. But he also knows they care. They care - even Jackson cares so why are they-

All Stiles can do is scream. Either his vocal chords are tearing or the air around them is vibrating or both., A flash of pain burns through Stiles' chest and everyone around him trips up. He sees it all in slow motion, feels even Erica's clawed fingers dislodge with a gush of blood. The world is as fuzzy as an unsharpened photograph and Stiles' head pounds. His legs give.

As the floor greets his knees with gritty little shards of what feels like glass, Stiles realizes he's free. He slips in his haste but pushes himself forward somehow. There would be time to question whatever happened later. Whether he has turned into something like the red-haired banshee they encountered stumbling around naked in the forest, or if he has just gone insane and is imagining things, he knows he has to get to Derek before-

No, Derek cannot die. He won't. Stiles will make sure he won't. All this time Derek has been protecting him, supporting him, making sure he would live. All this time Stiles was supposed to be fighting for Derek to get to live safely and happily.

How had he been so dumb? All this time he was so focused on asking Derek to be selfish that he forgot to be a little selfish himself.

A force snags his coat and throws Stiles harshly off balance. Something in his leg twists. His knees meet the ground again but this time he's shaking too hard, barely any energy left to drag the heavy air into his lungs, let alone try to stand up. 

"Stiles," a voice says, close to his ear but Stiles' shakes his head, tries to get away, tries to-

"Stiles!" It's Jackson. Stiles is looking into red-rimmed eyes and shaky lips that belong to Jackson and he's got to be in an alternate universe because this just doesn't make sense. Derek dying, while everyone runs, and Jackson getting emotional? No.

"He's gone."

_ No _ .

Derek can't just sacrifice himself. That's not how this is supposed to go. Stiles can't just pretend Derek doesn't matter. They need him. He needs to be alive, deserves to be alive. He-

The last thing he sees over Jackson's shoulder is a tight-lipped Cora before everything goes black.

∞ ∞ ∞

  
  
He's still staring up at a grey sky - hours or days later, he can't really tell. It has been a vague, bleary drifting in and out of consciousness kind of experience lately. It's like the pain is so strong that it's paralyzing his emotions and thoughts. Stiles can't find enough sense in the world around him to attempt engaging with it.

They never had a chance, had they? He had never had a chance with Derek. The world had seen to that. All those despicable so-called hunters and their prejudice. Derek had never truly believed he would make it out alive, Stiles can see that now. He had thought he was able to read Derek but he hadn't realized his self-destructive streak ran this deep. 

Every now and then someone checks up on him. Often it's Lydia, who takes a look at and redresses the cut on his thigh. She asks him stuff sometimes, offers conversation but Stiles never replies. He turns away from the growing concern and pity in their eyes and watch the bugs crawl through the forest of grass until his gaze blurs out of focus.

Erica comes to him one night and settles somewhere behind his back that he'd turned to everyone. 

"Stiles," she says, and her voice trembles like it isn't hers. Stiles wants to look at her, he really does, but something in his chest constricts so tightly that he can't even speak. His shoulders are stuck up somewhere near his ears and his chest aches with every breath.

He doesn't want to talk about it. Won't. It would be too real and he won't accept it. He can't.

There's a shuffling behind him and a teary sniffle.

"C-can I just…" and her fingers brush his shoulder. Somehow, Stiles manages to nod through gritted teeth. 

A second later, Erica is curled around him, arms holding onto him tight - or rather, holding him together. He breathes, feels Erica cry against him, and finds himself breathing out with a dangerously shaky breath.

It's a long night of blurring stars and collapsing worlds but at least for a little while, he doesn't feel so alone.

In the morning, Boyd wakes them and eases Erica off him. Neither have the strength, nor the disillusion of logic to fight him. Stiles feels the emptiness expand but there's a hearty breakfast of both fruits and bread to fill at least the void in his stomach.

He eats and washes up, as far as he can, and even grants Lydia the hint of what he hopes is a smile. Then, he falls back into fitful dreams of glowing eyes burning and dark tendrils bleeding out.

Something in him grows stronger in the next few days, until he feels like the beetle he is observing clamber successfully over a stone 10 times its size, and the chain of worker ants with crumbs scurry with blind determination. He can't quite put into words what exactly festers inside him. He wasn’t even aware of it before it churned through him and sparked the explosion that blew out the building from around them before it could come down on top. Instinctively, he knows that little vibrating buzz in his veins has always been there. He's just never had access to it. 

It really doesn't take him long to figure it out after that. The grass bends under his will and the midnight winds sing his tune without him even having to raise his voice. And with the power comes the plan. 

All the knowledge and experience and research he has collected throughout the years is finally going to bear fruit. The puzzle pieces are falling into place. The king of the chessboard has been felled but the secret is that there's a whole other dimension now to factor in.

The upside down, the underworld - call it whatever you want, Stiles is going to get Derek back.

Sneaking away from a pack of hearing sensitive werewolves is no challenge when you announce you're leaving. The trick is, they don't know he's not just going for a walk. So, he's about to go straight down into the stomach of hell with only a small pack with some dried food, a bottle of water and a handful of ammunition for the rifle strapped to his back. Stiles tries not to think too hard about it as his steps hasten through the crunchy undergrowth. 

Except his footsteps aren't the only ones he hears. Stiles turns in time to see Jackson stepping out between the trees, one hand gripping the strap over his shoulder.

Stiles clenches his fists.

"What do you want, Jackson."

Jackson raises a hand in innocence. "Woah, easy. I come in peace."

Stiles narrows his eyes.

"You shouldn't be going out there on your own."

"You don't know where I'm going," Stiles counters.

"I can tell it's about more than admiring the good weather." Jackson gives him a pointed look and Stiles glares. For all that they've been in conflict since meeting, Stiles can't deny that the werewolf is more perceptive and smarter than his pretty boy exterior and quick temper let on. There are remarkable similarities to Derek.

Stiles tips his chin higher.

"Well, I want to see you try stopping me," he challenges, feeling the thrum in his body spark.

"I'm not stopping you." Jackson walks forward instead, swings a pack off his shoulder and pushes it into Stiles' arms. "I'm going with you."

There's a brief silent exchange as Jackson stares him in the eyes and then lowers his gaze and steps back. Stiles doesn't know how to react. It takes him a moment to process this new development.

"Why?" He blurts out. Clearing his voice, he adds, "Why should I trust you? Why would you leave them? And Lydia."

Stiles had maintained that Lydia deserved better than Jackson after their first exchange but that hadn't stopped her from getting closer to him.

“Lydia… well, Lydia wanted me to give you this.” Jackson holds out a strand of strawberry blonde hair. “She said something about banshee powers.”

“I knew Lydia had something to do with this!” Stiles laughs victoriously and curiously takes the hair. He will figure out. Lydia can be trusted.

“She doesn’t want me to go with you. But I think I have to.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

Jackson sighs heavily. "Consider it… an apology. To you… to Derek." 

He bows his head and Stiles blinks. It's almost like there is a sort of admiration for Jackson forming inside him and that's certainly something he had not seen coming. Stiles pulls on the backpack and lets a smirk pass his features. 

"This is all because of Lydia, isn't it?" He asks, straightening. She changed his whole perspective, Stiles is sure. It’s just like with Derek for him. His purpose, his goals - everything became crystal clear. “She’s got you wrapped around her little finger.

"Is this a gossip circle or a rescue mission?" Jackson snipes and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"For a moment I thought you'd changed," he retorts, albeit keeping his voice light. He's weirdly touched by this whole thing, whatever the reasoning might be, and he starts forward again with increased confidence.

∞ ∞ ∞

Eventually, he has to leave Jackson behind. They don’t know if he would survive down there. Stiles doesn’t know if he will either. The werewolf can’t quite hide his relief at the prospect of avoiding a meeting with Cerberus, potential hellhounds and other ghastly creatures they were warned of along the way, even possibly the devil. Stiles still doesn’t believe a devil exists. Besides, it wouldn’t be a righteous hell and heaven if Derek was sent to hell.

From between the whirling maze of every story, multiple attempts of deceit, he’s pretty sure there’s only one path to the world beyond. The Underworld, the Afterlife, the Dark City, the Beyond, the Great Above and Great Below. Many myths, legends and misconceptions; while there’s a recognizant feeling in all of them, no words hold true.

Stiles’ brain alone can barely grasp his journey here. He knows it’s all adapted to be seen through a living mortal’s eyes. He doesn’t belong here after all. His whole presence is a shift in the paradigm.

And yet, Cerberus let him through. He was more majestic than Stiles could’ve expected and essentially wolf-like, for some reason, but nothing like he imagined. The encounter is never going to leave him. Cerberus isn’t bound to mortal conventions of time and space. Stiles can’t wrap his head around it but he knows it has something to do with the reasoning for his three heads; past, present and future.

He also learns that he could have embarked on his descent to the underworld from any location. It’s all about learning to look past any scientific understanding of the ‘real’ world and deconstruct it - or better said, his mind - to be able to step through that dimension. 

It’s like entering a dream. His consciousness wavers, and… rearranges. There is barren land all around him. Colorless. A desert of dirty fog that he moves through with uncertainty. Might as well be dreaming. 

Shattered fragments blur and shadows twist before his eyes but he blinks and they’re gone. An abyss could await his foot with every step and he would never be able to tell until it was too late.

Then, the faintest buzzing. It comes and goes, growing to a crescendo, almost robbing Stiles of his sanity, until he notices the murky water lapping at his feet. Suddenly he can’t unsee the dark ocean consuming everything around him. Stiles definitely loses his breath at this point in time, even though he’s not sure if he’s actually physically there.

That’s how the Underworld builds around him, with waves that crash over him, ready to drown, only to dissolve into a whole new scenery when he thinks he’s about to pass out. The further he goes, the wilder his surroundings get.

Stiles loses track of time and reality, memory… he nearly loses himself. 

But he wraps a hand around the fang he suddenly remembers he has hanging around his neck. Cerberus dared him to rip it out with his bare hands. Stiles ultimately had, and had been told to wear it close, right before a torrent of blood swelled from the giant creature’s mouth and engulfed him. That blood is now a cape that covers him head to toe and lets him stand out from the dead world around him.

Stiles grips the sharp tooth hard, clenches his teeth at the bursting pain and swell of bitterness that erupts through him. His head pounds and eyesight flickers, and he’s about to scream out in agony, when a quiet voice reminds, “Quiet, traveller, the ways of the underworld are perfect. They may not be questioned.”

Stiles comes to, retching on hands and knees in a pile of dusty rubble that’s all too familiar. He panics, dreading the incoming doom of failure, when he notices that the blood from his palms is pitch black.

No color. He’s still among the dead. His heart picks up pace.

He knows these walls. Knows this floor all too well. Stiles knows what he’ll find past the collapsed walls of the room in front of him. Ignoring the red spots that dance through around him, he scrambles from his knees and runs forward. He is making it count this time. He is not leaving without Derek.

It probably takes seconds but it feels like eternities until he is there, falling to his knees with a force that embeds gravel all the way to bone. He doesn’t care. He just grabs the cold hand he finds sticking out of the ruins, though he can’t help a shudder at the icy touch. Werewolves run hot.

Stiles can’t quite quench his hope that he will find Derek breathing, heart beating, as he digs him out. He knows that Derek is dead - that they’re in the land of the dead. Regardless, he can’t stop the tears that drip and fall onto the lifeless grey body streaked with dark, wet black.

The red shimmers settle in the distance around them, forming into hellhounds that watch with cocked heads at the scene as Stiles’s tears grow into another ocean that sweeps them all up.

∞ ∞ ∞

The hounds follow at a distance all the way back, slowly closing the distance between them. They yap as they snap at his heels. They yap and whine and howl like garbled little wolfy goblins. It feels like they’re drilling into his ears.

"Halt!"

The voice thunders overhead and Stiles freezes. His knees tremble, arms straining underneath the weight he's carrying. 

All around him, a tight circle of red demons. Behind them, up tremendous heights, Stiles recognizes figures in the giant stones ahead. Around him the land is barren and gray; dead. Behind the statues, there's color; life.

"You cannot take him with you," the voice states, clear, harsh, unrelenting.

Derek is slowly but steadily slipping out of Stiles' arms, completely limp. The blood makes it harder to hold on, but Stiles won’t let go. He won’t.

The hounds bark at him, flashing teeth.

“This is not your world. It is not your place to act in it. They won’t let you. They are required to keep the balance,” the voice booms, pristinely clear as it overlays the commotion of the army of red around him.

But Stiles straightens his back and readjusts his grip, hugging Derek tighter. He was never one to follow rules.

He sets his will to steel and his gaze on the prize, and wills the color into this world. He’s not sure what’s going on the reddish strand he had bound around his wrist glows. The wriggling mass parts before him, and a dry, earthy path simmers into view before him, leading out. Stepping forward, the world fades to dark around him and he leaves the muted shouting voice behind him. 

∞ ∞ ∞

Gravity is an incredibly heavy weight to wrangle with as he comes back into his body. Stiles feels a million years old. He’s hoping his little journey did not actually take that long. He gazes out between heavy eyelids to assure himself that the body he’s still clutching is the right one, but it’s hard to see clearly between free falling tears. Fortunately, he knows deep down that it is. 

Stiles knows the shape of Derek’s against his and he has an acute new sense of the soul that’s intertwined with his. He feels…

He feels a heartbeat beneath the familiar firm chest. His own heart stalls.

“Derek?”

A ragged breath responds. Then, a quiet groan and Stiles can’t move for fear of shattering this dream. 

Derek coughs, takes a heavy breath and then lifts his head weakly as he opens his eyes.

“Oh my god, you’re alive,” Stiles sobs and now he breaks; both out of trance and out of stubborn mechanical drive. It’s like he’s being reborn himself. He reaches out to touch, to assure himself of the blooming warm cheeks in front of him. His fingertips trace the scars that now line Derek’s skin, so visible against the perfectly sculpted face but disappearing into his scruffy beard. Stiles knows they will continue on down along his chest to wear the mark of death, marred like no werewolf has ever been before.

Except for Cerberus, maybe. Stiles wants to know exactly why, what it is about life and death and the wolves that braid the lines in between. But beyond that, he’s just grateful and he promises he’ll never ask the world for anything again.

“Stiles,” Derek breathes, voice ragged and not yet completely his own. Stiles nods, soothing him with constant soft touches to ground them both. “I was… I was d-”

“Shhh,” Stiles says quickly, pressing a light finger to Derek’s lips. A hot breath brushes his hand and stormy eyes look into his. “You’re here now.”

Derek lays his head back into the crook of Stiles elbow as he’s pulled into his lap and nods. Lifting an arm up in silent wonder, he finds Stiles’ arm and brushes down it. Stiles can’t stop crying but at least he can smile through the tears now.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” Derek tells him.

Stiles laughs. “I am a man of my word.”

He runs his thumb over Derek’s cheek. “And I told you I’m with you. Till the end of the world.”

Derek grasps his wrist and looks Stiles straight into his soul. He’s never felt so overwhelmed.

“I love you, too,” Derek says, and Stiles knows. He’s always known. It’s the reason they’re here. And he tells him.

“I know.” He smiles and leans down for a kiss. It’s even better now that he knows he’ll get to do this forever.

**Author's Note:**

> uh, also, i'm like really bad at tags but i don't think there is anything big/drastic beside the mcd so... idk, let me know if i should add any tag
> 
> BUT thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ^-^  
> [tumblr (:](halinski.tumblr.com)


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